ome to join us. On, men
of Lacedaemon, ours alone must be this victory!"

The shout of Pausanias was echoed by his captains. To the left and not far
off charged a second phalanx,--five thousand nodding crests and gleaming
points,--Aristeides bringing his whole array to his allies' succour. But
his help was not needed. The sight of his coming dashed out the last
courage of the Barbarians. Before the redoubled shock of the Spartans the
Asiatics crumbled like sand. Even whilst these broke once more, the
adjutant drew rein beside Mardonius.

"Lord, Artabazus is coward or traitor. Believing the battle lost, he has
fled. There is no help to bring."

The Prince bowed his head an instant, while the flight surged round him.
The Nisaean was covered with blood, but his rider spurred him across the
path of a squadron of flying Medians.

"Turn! Are you grown women!" Mardonius smote the nearest with his sword.
"If we cannot as Aryans conquer, let us at least as Aryans die!"

"_Ai! ai!_ Mithra deserts us. Artabazus is fled. Save who can!"

They swept past him. He flung himself before a band of Tartars. He had
better pleaded with the north wind to stay its course. Horse, foot,
Babylonians, Ethiopians, Persians, Medes, were huddled in fleeing rout.
"To the camp," their cry, but Mardonius, looking on the onrushing
phalanxes knew there was no refuge there....

And now sing it, O mountains and rivers of Hellas. Sing it, Asopus, to
Spartan Eurotas, and you to hill-girt Alphaeus. And let the maidens,
white-robed and poppy-crowned, sweep in thanksgiving up to the welcoming
temples,--honouring Zeus of the Thunders, Poseidon the Earth-Shaker, Athena
the Mighty in War. The Barbarian is vanquished. The ordeal is ended.
Thermopylae was not in vain, nor Salamis. Hellas is saved, and with her
saved the world.

* * * * * * *

Again on the knoll by the temple, apart from the rushing fugitives,
Mardonius reined. His companion was once more beside him. He leaned that
she might hear him through the tumult.

"The battle is lost. The camp is defenceless. What shall we do?"

Artazostra flung back the gold-laced cap and let the sun play over her
face and hair.

"We are Aryans," was all her answer.

He understood, but even whilst he was reaching out to catch her bridle
that their horses might run together, he saw her lithe form bend. The
arrow from a Laconian helot had smitten through the silvered mail. He saw
the